that deeper timbre that gives a man’s voice authority. It wasn’t a voice that would have any difficulty in commanding a room, so why claim he couldn’t speak in public? On automatic pilot, Curle made the usual joke about the law of libel and trotted out the anecdote about how Simenon as a protest had published his autobiography with all the bits left blank to show how many threats he’d had of being sued. When he stopped, the librarian took his chance and it was over, leaving nothing to do but sign a few books.
That finished, he would have made for home but was gathered up by the sociable Jonah and added to a group consisting of Todd and a young man who said something flattering but didn’t take the trouble to introduce himself. The night was cold so they didn’t venture far. As he walked, Curle was struck by desire for Ali Fleming, whom he hadn’t visited in almost a fortnight. The two in front were laughing, the young man beside him said something and he made some sort of reply, all of it blurred by images of her breasts, the curve of her arse, the intricate familiar mystery of her cunt under his hand. Get away as soon as I can, he thought.
In the pub, he tried to buy the drinks, not wanting to stay for a second round, but Todd was before him and brought a pint with a whisky beside it though he’d asked for a half pint only.
‘Those admirable work habits of yours,’ Jonah said, settling back on the bench and blowing his nose. ‘It’s a wonder you haven’t written ten times as much.’
For some reason as he drank his whisky, it seemed thatthe story of Grogan would be a suitable riposte to that. It was the tale of a young man who was a whore for the repartee and had no fear of being interviewed by a Dublin wit. Came the moment when the wit asked was he the front end of an ass, was he the back end of an ass, why then he must be no end of an ass. The audience laughed and any other man would have been discomfited. Not Grogan, however. Taking a pace back he looked the wit up and down before responding, Fuck you!
Possibly because he got it slightly muddled in the middle, this story did not go down as well as Curle might have hoped. As he pondered this, the young man appeared with a fresh round, imitating Todd in fetching for the writer, that creative spirit, a whisky as well as a pint, though the others seemed content with just a beer.
As he settled down again, he said to Jonah as if in response to an earlier question, ‘I’ve always worked with books. I started with Thins. I’d left before they went into administration, though.’
‘A good bookshop as bookshops go,’ Jonah said, ‘and as bookshops go, it went.’
‘Nothing stays the same,’ Curle pronounced gloomily.
He tasted the whisky and decided it was crap. Maybe the young guy hadn’t much money. But why buy whisky at all if you weren’t going to buy a malt? He hadn’t asked him to buy a whisky. He watched the young man push a lock of blond hair back and decided that he disliked him a good deal. He’d pushed himself in, a pest, an intruder, a nuisance, an irrelevance. While coming to this conclusion, following the habit of a child trained never to leave his plate uncleared, he finished the whisky and started on his pint to take the taste away.
Todd, who’d been sitting with the young man also in hissights, suddenly said, ‘I was talking to a client from St Andrews about his tax return. He told me there was a biologist in the University there studying flies.’
‘Fruit flies,’ Jonah said, encyclopaedic as ever. ‘Use them for genetics.’
‘No. Ordinary flies, dance flies he called them, out in the fields. Know what they found? They found that males that tried to bribe females with insects didn’t do any better than ones that offered them bits of twig. And they got a grant to do it!’ He laughed. ‘To prove that women are stupid!’
And then two voices spoke at once.
Jonah said, ‘Or that men are bastards!’
And the young
That finished, he would have made for home but was gathered up by the sociable Jonah and added to a group consisting of Todd and a young man who said something flattering but didn’t take the trouble to introduce himself. The night was cold so they didn’t venture far. As he walked, Curle was struck by desire for Ali Fleming, whom he hadn’t visited in almost a fortnight. The two in front were laughing, the young man beside him said something and he made some sort of reply, all of it blurred by images of her breasts, the curve of her arse, the intricate familiar mystery of her cunt under his hand. Get away as soon as I can, he thought.
In the pub, he tried to buy the drinks, not wanting to stay for a second round, but Todd was before him and brought a pint with a whisky beside it though he’d asked for a half pint only.
‘Those admirable work habits of yours,’ Jonah said, settling back on the bench and blowing his nose. ‘It’s a wonder you haven’t written ten times as much.’
For some reason as he drank his whisky, it seemed thatthe story of Grogan would be a suitable riposte to that. It was the tale of a young man who was a whore for the repartee and had no fear of being interviewed by a Dublin wit. Came the moment when the wit asked was he the front end of an ass, was he the back end of an ass, why then he must be no end of an ass. The audience laughed and any other man would have been discomfited. Not Grogan, however. Taking a pace back he looked the wit up and down before responding, Fuck you!
Possibly because he got it slightly muddled in the middle, this story did not go down as well as Curle might have hoped. As he pondered this, the young man appeared with a fresh round, imitating Todd in fetching for the writer, that creative spirit, a whisky as well as a pint, though the others seemed content with just a beer.
As he settled down again, he said to Jonah as if in response to an earlier question, ‘I’ve always worked with books. I started with Thins. I’d left before they went into administration, though.’
‘A good bookshop as bookshops go,’ Jonah said, ‘and as bookshops go, it went.’
‘Nothing stays the same,’ Curle pronounced gloomily.
He tasted the whisky and decided it was crap. Maybe the young guy hadn’t much money. But why buy whisky at all if you weren’t going to buy a malt? He hadn’t asked him to buy a whisky. He watched the young man push a lock of blond hair back and decided that he disliked him a good deal. He’d pushed himself in, a pest, an intruder, a nuisance, an irrelevance. While coming to this conclusion, following the habit of a child trained never to leave his plate uncleared, he finished the whisky and started on his pint to take the taste away.
Todd, who’d been sitting with the young man also in hissights, suddenly said, ‘I was talking to a client from St Andrews about his tax return. He told me there was a biologist in the University there studying flies.’
‘Fruit flies,’ Jonah said, encyclopaedic as ever. ‘Use them for genetics.’
‘No. Ordinary flies, dance flies he called them, out in the fields. Know what they found? They found that males that tried to bribe females with insects didn’t do any better than ones that offered them bits of twig. And they got a grant to do it!’ He laughed. ‘To prove that women are stupid!’
And then two voices spoke at once.
Jonah said, ‘Or that men are bastards!’
And the young
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